


Why does it have to go from good to gone?

by Elisexyz



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Episode: s02e10 Chinatown, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 12:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15073610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: Her mother’s dead. Rufus— Jiya said he’d die, and they all saw him falling. Emma took him too. Amy is still gone. Her life is in ruins. She’s akiller. Theymade her into a killer. So might as well use to stop feeling so out of control, once again stuck in a sinking car and waiting for someone to swoop in and save her at the last second.It’s funny, because Flynn did exactly that, and he’s dying too now because of it.(In my defense, somebodyliterallyasked for this)





	Why does it have to go from good to gone?

**Author's Note:**

> For the Tumblr prompt: [6\. “You can’t die, please don’t die.” + Garcy](http://heytheredeann.tumblr.com/post/175312602789/garcy-for-you-cant-die-please-dont-die-bc-i). You ask for pain and I shall deliver.

“Oh god, I’m _so_ sorry,” she repeats, for what’s probably the millionth time, and the fact that he doesn’t even try to wave away her apology anymore only increases her panic – that, and the fact that she has to carry a little more of his weight each second that passes.

She was _so_ stupid. How _could_ she be so stupid?

She has no training, she barely knows how to hold a gun properly, her feet were only carried by rage and blinding hatred as helplessness suffocated her, but she _swears_ that at the time running after Emma seemed like the only logical thing to do— or better, the only thing to do, _period_.

Her mother’s dead. Rufus— Jiya said he’d die, and they all saw him falling. Emma took him too. Amy is still gone. Her life is in ruins. She’s a _killer_. _They_ made her into a killer. So might as well use it to _stop_ feeling so out of control, once again stuck in a sinking car and waiting for someone to swoop in and save her at the last second.

It’s funny, because Flynn did exactly that, and he’s dying too now because of it.

“I need you to walk,” she says, in between ragged breaths, her muscles protesting as she tries to drag them both towards the corner, so that they can turn around, get to the others, get to the Lifeboat—

She doesn’t look at Flynn. She purposefully keeps her eyes fixed on her objective, which probably contributes to her feeling like they are moving one inch every minute and they are not really getting any _closer_. She knows that she _can’t_ look at him, because if she does she’ll see him pale and on the brink of unconsciousness – he’s stopped trying to reassure her that everything is fine, he’s stopped trying to keep himself upright, leaning almost completely onto her, she _knows_ that he’s slipping away between her fingers, just like all the blood that she can still feel pouring under her hand – and she’ll panic instead of _moving_.

“I need you to help me, come on,” she insists, tightening her grip on his waist and shifting so that his arm is more steadily thrown around her shoulders. “It’s close,” she lies through her teeth, and that damn hallway seems so _long_ —

Her head is pounding, she vaguely registers, and her legs are on fire, her arms are pleading her for some _rest_ — she clenches her teeth instead, pressing harder against the bullet wound and feeling a rush of relief when she hears Flynn grunting in pain. It’s enough to almost make her laugh. Pain means he’s alive. It’s good, and it’s gonna _have_ to be enough.

She’s not losing anyone else.

“You can’t die,” she says, quickly, and there are a _million_ reasons why that she could list, but her head isn’t working right and moving her legs is a way bigger effort than it should be, and she can still hear him draw shaky breaths but they are getting thinner and thinner— “The journal—” she finally rambles, her brain quickly reminding her of how much faith he’s always had in the damn thing – it’s that journal that set him down this path, so _she_ is the reason why he’s here now, however you spin it, and Lucy spares a second to curse at that version of herself that sent him on a desperate crusade –. “It says we have to defeat Rittenhouse together. So you can’t die.” She can’t remember whether that’s exactly what it said or if Flynn only ever mentioned that they’re supposed to work together, but it hardly seems to matter right now. “Please, don’t die,” she adds, in a whisper, her voice hoarse and her throat burning, as if to remind her that among other things she was almost strangled a few minutes ago.

She doesn’t know if she simply twisted her ankle or her knee gave out or what, but one moment she’s basically dragging Flynn away, the other they are both falling down. She manages to stop their fall so that they end up on their knees instead of flat on their faces, but it’s a new shot of pain through her body and her reflexes made her use her hand to break the fall instead of attempting to keep as much blood as possible inside Flynn’s chest. The realization makes her panic and turn to him to fix her mistake.

His arm is still around her shoulders and, as she turns, she ends up staring at his face – paler than she imagined –, at the bloody clothes – how can he be still _breathing_? –, at everything she isn’t supposed to look at.

“We need to get up,” she says, but she already knows that she can’t lift them both from that position. Not when she is this exhausted and she has to do all the work herself.

Panic starts slipping through her mind, her already irregular breaths coming even shorter as she eyes their destination and she feels the urge to cry and plead for _something_ to happen, because she can’t lose him too, she really, _really_ can’t. Pleading god in the hour of need, eyes full of tears and cries for some damn _justice_ in this world echoing in her head, makes her feel like a child, sitting and waiting for a miracle, too small to do anything to fix her own pain.

Or like a poor girl stuck underwater in a sinking car, with no one to hear her screams.

Except—

“Wyatt!” she tries to yell, but there isn’t enough oxygen in her lungs and her voice comes out a bit too strangled to be effective. She pushes harder against Flynn’s chest, her stomach sinking when no protest comes.

 _Calm down, Lucy, calm down. Breathe_.

She gets some air in. Inhale, exhale. Again, and again.

“Wyatt!” she tries again, and this time there’s more _voice_ to it, so _maybe_ — “Wyatt! Wyatt, help!”

She doesn’t know how long it takes for a very distressed “Lucy!” to make its way to her ears, but when she sees Wyatt showing up at the corner of the hallway and running towards them she lets out a small, hysterical chuckle.

“We’re getting you home,” she mumbles, her grip tightening upon seeing all the blood on Wyatt’s clothes. _Rufus. Rufus is already gone_. “You are gonna be just fine.”


End file.
